


Incrosada

by Swordsandspindles



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Flirting, M/M, Pining, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, capable Jaskier, no plot only pining, this fic doesn't have a TAD title I'm ashamed, unnecessarily detailed sword fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordsandspindles/pseuds/Swordsandspindles
Summary: Geralt, in a fit of generosity and/or madness, decides to teach Jaskier sword fighting, which goes as badly as he had expected until… it doesn’t anymore.AKA: Jaskier picks up a blade. Geralt starts sweating nervously.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 61
Kudos: 564





	Incrosada

**Author's Note:**

> A [bunch of lovely tumblr folks](https://jaskieriest.tumblr.com/post/615132984409997312/bonus-bonus-jaskier-accidentally-makes-a-smart) started talking about the concept of Geralt teaching Jaskier to fight, with Jaskier gleefully faking incompetence to prolong all the ~touching~ and Geralt helplessly panicking/pining over it all. So clearly, I was forced to write my own version. It happened wholly against my will, and a bit like this:
> 
> My guts: sword fighting sword fighting sword fighting  
> My heart: PINING PINING PINING  
> My brain: groans, buries face in her hands, sobs
> 
> So here we are now.
> 
> With thanks to my dearest drylime, for being a brilliant ~~beta~~ second, contributing double entendres and patiently correcting my ungainly grammar. <3

The harsh clang of steel clashing against steel rings out in the empty upper hall of the fencing school. It strikes a counterpoint to the bird song and rising susurrus of the market outside, as the city slowly rises from its slumber.

They’re sparring, or rather, Jaskier is sparring, and Geralt is moving with him, sedately, correcting his movements from time to time. They go through the motions of a real fight, slowed down to a snail’s pace. Geralt is carefully avoiding any maneuvers Jaskier isn’t familiar with yet, sticking to the basic forms of classical training he has taught him so far. The goal isn’t to bring Jaskier up to Geralt’s level of skill – _that_ would take years – it’s to give him a passing familiarity with a sword, and thus a slightly better chance for survival in case he decides to keep stumbling after the Witcher on his hunts. It’s a far cry from the brutal pace and iron discipline with which Vesemir had drilled the lessons into his head a lifetime ago. Even so, he has to admit that Jaskier isn’t quite as useless as he had feared at the start. The bard grasped the basic movements fairly quickly, probably an advantage of years of dancing and stage combat, or what passes as combat on the tired boards of many a market town theatre.

So now they’re here, making use of one of the surprisingly luxurious training halls of the city’s fencing school. Jaskier had taken advantage of his numerous and mysterious connections in the city to obtain the keys and permission to use the equipment before the ordinary training sessions started. Geralt preferred not to ponder the nature of these connections too closely. Instead, he had grunted with approval at the sight of the clean-swept wooden floorboards, the high white-washed walls of the room and the orderly arrays of weaponry. He had discarded his cloak, leather jerkin and pauldrons, folding them neatly on the table by the door and had made Jaskier shed his doublet. With a frown, he had also handed him his own rough leather gloves for protection, ignoring the bard’s grateful smile and had proceeded to teach him the necessary basics.

Attack, block, double, block, attack. Again. Upper left, lower left, upper right, lower right. Again. Again.

“Wrong edge,” Geralt says as Jaskier messes up his parade again, and he reaches over automatically to turn the bard’s wrist around, correcting his blade’s alignment for what seems the hundredth time.

“Like this?”

“No, like – here, let me –”

He steps around to the bard’s side and demonstrates again, but Jaskier drops his blade with a groan.

“I’ll never get this.”

“Here,” Geralt says and steps behind him to grasp Jaskier’s wrist, bringing his arm and blade up again. He guides the bard, one-handed, through the movement he’s been failing to mirror, and Jaskier follows the command of his arm meekly.

“Like this. Uncross your hands, high to the left, to block an attack from your left, right foot forward. High to the right and cross, right hand leading.”

“Hmmm,” Jaskier mumbles, smiling, leaning into the swing of his blade and, incidentally, Geralt’s arm. His body is very warm in front of the Witcher, who suddenly becomes aware of how soft the skin of the bard’s wrist is. Geralt hastily lets go. “Yeah, that makes sense now. You’re really surprisingly patient at this.”

“I’m surprised myself. Even a thirteen-year-old is better than you,” Geralt responds with the hint of a smirk, and Jaskier’s smile disappears as he bristles at him in mock outrage.

“ _Ciri_ has been trained in Kaer Morhen by a pack of bored witchers for half a year,“ he grouses and turns to the Witcher, testing out his new attack. 

Geralt nods as the bard crosses his wrists correctly at last, and parries his blow. They exchange a few more strikes, increasing their tempo as they circle slowly across the room.

“I’ve needed my hands for more important endeavours, like making sure you have a warm meal in the evenings. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Watch your feet,” Geralt answers and suddenly shoves at his shoulder, forcefully, upsetting his balance. Jaskier stumbles to the side and only barely avoids landing on his ass.

“Arse,” he laughs at Geralt. “Now that’s just unfair.”

“A kikimora won’t fight you fairly, so stop turning your shoulder towards me and face me squarely. You’re fucking up your center of gravity twisting about like that.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Jaskier complies, and lets Geralt prod and swat at his back, his hips, correcting the stance of his feet and minute details of his body’s position until he’s satisfied. Geralt sets a hand against his upper arm to test his balance, and pushes again, hard. Jaskier grins at him, his body a suddenly heavy weight under the witcher’s palm. He stands solid. Geralt clears his throat and retreats, nodding at Jaskier to come after him with another attack.

He does, advancing with a good clean swing from his lower right. Geralt parries low with a simple guard, binding their blades together for an instant, allowing Jaskier to calculate his next move. The bard steps further to the right and rotates his blade with a triumphant whoop, aiming to use Geralt’s own blade as a fulcrum to deliver a long cut to the Witcher’s side. Were it with sharpened steel, that cut would do serious damage, so Geralt winds his own blade around Jaskier’s and instead uses the bard’s momentum to bring the steel around again, dipping the point of his blade to strike Jaskier sharply across the arm. Jaskier jerks back and hisses as the blade hits his hand. Geralt lets him go instantly, checking the lutenist’s fingers with a sudden flash of worry that’s not lessened by the heavy gloves the bard wears. But he can’t see any damage and doesn’t smell any pain on him, only fresh sweat and – “Oh, screw it all,” Jaskier shouts – frustration.

“This feels just wrong! It would be so much easier if I had – oh, for the love of – ”

He tosses the sword to the ground and, to the Witcher’s surprise, hops onto one of the benches by the wall to pull down one of the training rapiers. They’re mounted high on the wall in neat lines, rows upon rows of slender, glinting blades with ornate, swept hilts, the metal cast into swirling designs like strange flowers. They are beautiful and expensive, not meant for beginner’s lessons like this one. Weapons for lords and noblemen, not paltry Witchers, in any case. Jaskier tests the rapier’s weight and balance in his grip and jumps down again from the bench. In a single elegant motion, he swivels around to Geralt. He sets his feet, precisely, perfectly, in the narrow stance the fencers of the southern cities prefer, back foot turned at an angle, empty hand out to the side, held low, for counter-balance, or a possible dagger. The narrow blade makes a faint whistling sound as he gives it a few testing strikes, and Geralt’s mouth suddenly goes dry.

Jaskier circles around him with a playful spark in his eyes, blade aimed steadily at Geralt’s throat, wooden floor creaking under his boots, and the Witcher turns with him, unthinking, until he’s got the sun directly in his eyes. A good move, which might have worked on a human opponent, Geralt notes distantly with approval, as he stares at this sudden vision of Jaskier. This poised, dangerous Jaskier who might not know how to use a longsword, but _clearly_ knows how to use a rapier. The light of the rising sun streams through the high window at his back and illuminates him from behind, turning his thin linen shirt utterly translucent. The golden light renders his body in silhouette clear against the dawn sky, and Geralt has to fight to keep his eyes from sliding down to where the bard’s sides visibly heave with the strain of their exercise. The fabric clings to his torso where it is soaked through with sweat, and Geralt can clearly see the dark curls of hair on his chest, faint shadowy lines trailing down over his soft belly and lower, and – and Geralt blinks.

“Since when do you know how to handle a rapier?” he snaps.

“Er,” Jaskier stammers and his eyes slide to the side as a faint blush creeps into his cheeks. “I had a little bit of training when I was younger?”

“And you’re only mentioning that now?”

“Well, you never asked. And I know your opinion on, what was it, oh: _those fancy-pants posh boys with their ridiculous skewering sticks, won’t last a second against a proper monster._ ”

Geralt glares at him.

“I never said that.”

“Well no, but it’s totally something you _would_ say. You were _thinking_ it, don’t deny it.”

“That’s because it’s true, a rapier is useless, unless you’re aiming to duel a nobleman at dawn over a tragic love affair.”

“They are elegant,” Jaskier counters. “They have a better reach, they’re _fast_ and they give _arrogant swordsmen_ a narrower target.”

He lets his blade whistle through the air again for emphasis and turns his body towards Geralt, presenting only a slim target indeed. He sets one foot forward, cocks his wrist elegantly, and lowers his blade again in a seemingly relaxed position. His eyes glint at Geralt from behind lowered lashes.

 _It’s a trap_ , Geralt thinks, and notices a sudden, strange spike in his heartbeat.

“Maybe,” he says slowly. “But a two-hander is more agile and precise, and I can turn every movement around on you. Your skewer won’t help you then.”

“I bet you can’t even get your sword up in time, Witcher, before I’ve skewered you,” Jaskier says.

“Come here, and I’ll show you how fast I can get it up,” Geralt retorts, then falters as he hears the words coming out of his own mouth. Jaskier only laughs at him and lunges.

He is, Geralt finds as he meets his blow, indeed faster with a rapier. They prod at each other carefully, Geralt trying to gauge the extent of the bard’s true skills with a blade, and Jaskier in turn trying to disguise them. The bard doesn’t quite succeed. He is nimble and sets his feet with a dancer’s confident precision now that he’s able to move the way he’s used to, and his blade leaps in sharp, precise blows and thrusts to undermine Geralt’s defenses. His attacks still glance off Geralt’s blade, as the Witcher’s reflexes are better honed by years of combat, even though he keeps a level playing field by moving at a human’s slow speed. But Geralt is still distracted by the shift in their training session, and when he traps Jaskier’s rapier in a determined block, out of reach for his opponent to utilize against him, he doesn’t quite notice the quick step Jaskier makes to bring their bodies close together. And he doesn’t parry the sudden strike of Jaskier’s left against his chest, just beneath his ribcage.

They both look down at Jaskier’s empty off-hand resting against Geralt’s side.

“Please take a moment to imagine a dagger in my hand, which I had cunningly disguised upon my person up until this moment?” Jaskier asks hopefully.

Geralt gives a snort of amusement. He pushes his very real blade against Jaskier’s rapier, making sure the bard is aware that his strength won’t hold against his own for long. Then he lets go and retreats, while Jaskier rolls his shoulder a little.

“Imaginary weapons don’t count,” the Witcher grumbles. “I have a _lot_ of imaginary weapons, you’d be dead in an instant.”

“Oh, so what are you imagining right now?”

“A trebuchet,” Geralt says.

Jaskier circles him again, feinting at him a few times, but Geralt dodges and stays doggedly out of his reach, wary of his tricks now. They watch each other’s eyes as they move around the room. Somehow, the bard’s seem deeper and bluer to him than they ever have before. He should be able to anticipate Jaskier’s next attack before it comes. But the bard is better at reading people’s eyes – or possibly just _his_ eyes – and a shiver runs down Geralt’s spine, unbidden, as he realizes that in this moment he holds the bard’s full, undivided concentration. A rare sensation indeed, as this kind of concentration is usually reserved for music and improbable stories. He reciprocates by widening his pupils as far as they’ll go, staring the bard down, taking him in with all of his enhanced senses until Geralt can hear the faintest movement of linen against his throat, smell his excitement in the air and imagine the taste of his sweat on his lips...

And then the fight is over as quickly as it had started, when Jaskier darts forward with a cry, slashing downwards at Geralt who, instead of blocking or backing away, moves close inside the other man’s space with inhuman speed. Their blades clash together with a dull clang, earlier than Jaskier anticipated. In an instant, Geralt has gained hold of both the rapier and his own blade with his left hand, clutching them together at their point of contact, forcing both higher. He hooks his guard behind Jaskier’s hilt to leverage the rapier clean out of his grasp with a sharp turn of his hip. Jaskier, the fool, doesn’t yield it, but instead tumbles into Geralt with the movement, throwing his free arm around his waist, clutching at him for balance and almost tripping them both. With the bard refusing to give in, their bodies are locked together just like their blades. Jaskier’s eyes are still fixed on Geralt’s, in almost dreamlike concentration, and his chest is heaving. Then his eyes slide down to the Witcher’s mouth and Geralt, instead of standing still and allowing whatever it is the bard will do next, makes a strange, panicked sound deep in his throat. At that, Jaskier blushes fiercely and drops his eyes, at last letting go of both his rapier and Geralt’s waist. He steps back quickly, somehow drawing all the strength in the Witcher’s body away with him.

“Well,” Geralt allows at last, voice sounding slightly strangled in his ears, “Against a human, you might actually be quick enough to have a chance.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier agrees, out of breath from their bout, also sounding strangely high-pitched.

He retrieves the rapier from Geralt and quickly turns away to place it back on its mount on the wall. If his hands shake slightly as they brush his, Geralt can chalk that up to fatigue.

“Let’s, uh, let’s make certain I only have to fight humans then, and I’ll happily stay away from the monsters.”

 _If only_ , Geralt thinks helplessly, _I could stay away from you._

**Author's Note:**

> A: Incrosada: “crossing the swords”. The term comes from the manual of 14th century Italian itinerant fencing master Fiore Dei Liberi and describes the moment of contact of blade against blade just before any true action is made, and from which basically any move becomes possible for the opponents.
> 
> B: Never EVER spar without, at a minimum, gloves and facial protection if you wield steel. NEVER EVER. If you fight a thrust-heavy style like rapier, ALWAYS wear full body protection. Seriously. This is dangerous, and Jaskier and Geralt are foolish fantasy creatures who can't even manage to talk to each other. They're being very bad examples here.


End file.
